Legally Dead

by Edna Buchanan

  Tears flooded Luz’s eyes as the words rushed out. “The mother’s boyfriend assaulted Keri, but when he started to touch her little sister, too, she tried to stop him, fought back. He was drunk. Crazy. She was only in the third grade. Her sister died. Keri needed surgery. The mother visited the man in jail and testified in his defense that it was all a mistake.”

  “How could she?” Venturi said, his expression pained.

  The patient toddler, his empty mouth open like a baby bird’s, began to whimper. Luz cooed and steered the spoon into his mouth.

  Keri’s grandmother raised her, Luz said.

  “She has issues. Psychological problems. A college romance ended badly. She trashed his place, burned his clothes, destroyed his stuff.

  “She was so ashamed. Said she couldn’t help herself and realized then that she was too damaged to ever sustain a successful long-term relationship. That was when she made a major decision—to focus all her energy and creativity on what she can do well, her work. I give her credit. It makes sense.”

  He frowned. “So when you said it wasn’t Sidney, you thought Keri broke into my house,” he said. “She didn’t. I wish I’d known…”

  “I didn’t want either of you hurt, Michael. I tried.” She gazed at him accusingly. “Now,” she said sadly, “I can’t even reach her.”

  “I’m sure that’s temporary,” he said, then entertained a dark thought. “Does Keri have any Russian friends?”

  “She doesn’t have many friends. Only her patients.” Luz paused. “There is a Russian girl. She has a heavy accent. I see her in the office sometimes. She’s due next month. She’s from Russia and works as a waitress at a Cuban-owned Italian pizzeria in Little Haiti.” She smiled. “That’s Miami.”

  “Is the Russian girl married?”

  She shrugged. “I never saw her baby’s father. She’s young, teens, I think. Keri has a soft spot for young mothers. She helps them all she can.”

  He took a bitter swallow of strong Cuban coffee. “How did you hear that Sidney was cleared?” Was Danny talking too much?

  “Victoria called, she was so happy.”

  “She is relieved,” he acknowledged. “When did she call?”

  “Yesterday afternoon, after Oprah.” She aimed another spoonful at her drooling target.

  The baby pounded his high-chair tray with chubby fists. Venturi envied him. He, too, wanted to vent, to pound something with his fists.

  Vicki had called Luz while he and Bill were still discussing his report in the war room. Bill had leaked the results to her first, hoping to hit on her.

  Did anybody tell the truth? Was everybody thinking with their genitals?

  “No bombs, no bullets, no problems,” Danny said tersely. An interesting end to his phone conversation as Venturi rejoined him.

  He didn’t even ask. Instead he filled Danny in on the Louisiana corruption probe and the fact that Solange’s name had surfaced.

  Danny was incensed. “Every criminal caught red-handed starts pointing fingers! It’s the old SOD defense: Some Other Dude did it.”

  “I didn’t believe it, either,” Venturi said. “What happened to Marian is my fault, Danny. I only meant to do it once—I thought we could pull it off. A good launch for a frustrated astronaut, a man who deserved a second chance. It felt so good that it got away from me. I played God. I must be crazy.”

  “If so, you’re not alone, bro.”

  “What were we thinking?”

  “Don’t beat yourself up, Mike. Our intentions were good. What’s done is done.”

  “The only decent thing I can do now is protect those people out there all alone and unaware.”

  Vicki met him at the door, eyes wide.

  “Mikey, someone came looking for you about twenty minutes ago. He had an envelope addressed to you and I signed for it. Did I do the wrong thing?”

  He tore the envelope open. Legal papers and a copy of a lawsuit.

  He was shocked but not surprised.

  “What is it, Mikey? Who was he?”

  “A process server,” he said wearily. “The parents of the little girls murdered in New Hampshire are suing the Marshals Service, WITSEC, and me, personally, for the wrongful deaths of their daughters.”

  His cell phone rang.

  “Michael?”

  He recognized the voice instantly. Lyle Gates aka Richard Lynch.

  “Sorry for breaking the rules.” Lynch sounded confused. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ve got a bad feeling. When you called, I thought it was a test and I passed. But something’s happened.”

  “Tell me.” Venturi took out a notebook and picked up a pen.

  “A few hours after you called, I took the trash out to the alley beside the apartment house. I heard a car door close, thought nothing of it, until two men tried to push me back into the building. I knocked over a coat tree in the lobby and tried to force them out. One pulled a gun. I threw an umbrella stand at them and took the stairs trying to outrun them. A neighbor opened her door, saw them run across the lobby, saw the gun, and started screaming. Somebody called the police. An officer on foot patrol heard the screams and came running. They got away, but they shot at my neighbor and grazed the officer. I locked myself in my apartment. Nobody knows it was me they were after. But I’m sure it was. Did your call have anything to do with this?”

  “I’m afraid it did. I wanted to warn you. Thank God you’re okay, Richard. You did everything right. Good job. Any doubt at all that it was you they were after?”

  “No. One said, ‘There he is. Get him.’”

  “I’m not sure who’s behind it. But you are in danger. I want you to get out of there. Now. Make sure you’re not followed. Did you get a good look at them?”

  “Fair-skinned, thirties or forties. One medium height, the other a little taller. Spoke English with an accent, could’ve been Russian. One had really bad skin and a tattoo on his arm, looked like a cross, some sort of religious symbol.”

  Venturi told him about the stolen records.

  “But who? Why?” he pleaded. “People hated Lyle Gates, but nobody ever tried to kill him. I landed a great job here with a straight shot at the top. Everybody likes me. I think.”

  “Tell your boss you have a family emergency and need a few days off.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Take your cell phone. You have my number. We’ll stay in touch. Be careful. They will kill you if they can. Hide out. Lie low. Keep moving till I get back to you.”

  “What did I do wrong, Michael?”

  “Nothing. It’s me. It’s my fault.”

  He heard the front-gate buzzer but ignored it, until Vicki appeared in the doorway signaling frantically. He hung up the phone.

  “Mikey?” She looked distressed. “There are people outside.”

  “Who?”

  “The one who pushed the buzzer said her name is Judy Grimes.”

  Why did that sound familiar? Then he remembered: the reporter who called him just before he left New York.

  “She says she’s from the Washington Post. She’s not alone.” Vicki was wringing her hands.

  “Who else?” he asked, moving toward the front door.

  “A woman from the Miami News. And a van from Channel 7.”

  “Oh, no.” As he peered from behind a curtain, a sound truck bearing the call letters of the local CBS affiliate lumbered off the main road and stopped.

  He turned calmly to Victoria. “Will you take care of Scout and the house until I get back?”

  “Of course, Mikey.”

  “I need your help. Here’s what I want you to do. Open the door and casually walk out, let them think you’re coming to them. Instead, go to my car.” He pressed the remote key into her hand.

  “There’s a leather folder taped under the glove box. Take it out, don’t let them see it. Signal them that you’ll be right back and bring the folder to me.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Bail out, but I c
an’t let them follow me.”

  She nodded.

  “Take your cane,” he said. “Use it, and move slowly.”

  She went to the intercom and told the reporters she’d be right out.

  The aggressive pack of cameramen jockeyed for position and crowded closer to the gate. Why do they do that, he wondered, even when someone is willing to talk to them?

  Vicki did as he asked, smiled reassuringly at the reporters, signaled them to give her a minute, and brought the folder back to the house.

  By then he’d thrown some things into a duffel bag.

  He heard the reporters’ aggrieved shouts from the gate as she reentered the house and closed the door. Somebody put a finger on the buzzer again and didn’t take it off. He took the folder from her, checked through it: his passport, a bank book, ID, and credit cards were all there. He snatched up the duffel bag and the computer’s TravelDrive.

  “I’m out of here,” he said. “But don’t let them know that. When I close the back door, you step out the front and move down the driveway as slowly as you can.

  “Smile as if you can’t wait to meet them. Ignore the cameras. When they ask for me, answer with questions. ‘Who is it that you’re looking for? How do you spell that? You sure you have the right address?’ Look confused. Be vague but charming. When they ask your name, act coy. Be shy. Say you’re visiting. That you’re the caretaker, or the real estate agent, or a tourist who rented the place for a week. Say whatever you like. Use your fertile imagination. Just speak slowly and keep them occupied long enough for me to split.

  “If they realize I’m making a run for it, they may call in a news chopper. That could be a problem.

  “Once I’m gone, leave your car where it’s parked. They can’t see the tag number from there without trespassing. If they do, call the police. Say you’re alone, frightened, and strangers are breaking in. Use my car. The gas tank is full.”

  “I know, dear. It’s always full.”

  “Love you, lady.” He kissed her cheek. “Hold down the fort till I get back.”

  “I will,” she promised. “Don’t worry about a thing. Love you, too, Mikey. No problem. Be careful.”

  “Take care of her,” he told the dog, who panted and wagged his tail.

  Venturi looked back. Vicki stood poised, one hand on the doorknob.

  “I’m ready for my close-up,” she said, and blew him a kiss.

  He closed the back door behind him as she swung open the front. The reporters began to shout.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “Danny, where are you?”

  “Douglas Road, on my way to the house of death for more fun and frolic.”

  “Can you pick me up? I need your help.”

  “I’m on the way. Where you at, bro?”

  “In my boat, headed west in the canal toward the levee. You know the one. Meet me there.”

  Venturi did his best to conceal the boat, which he left tied up in the mangroves, and waited by the road.

  “Thought you were going to Europe,” Danny said, as Venturi yanked open the car door and threw his bag into the back.

  “Had to go over the wall at the house. It’s surrounded—a three-ring media circus.”

  “I heard.”

  Venturi did a double take.

  “Luz just saw Vicki live on the noon news and called me. Said she had a half dozen microphones stuck in her face. Looked like one of America’s most wanted, or a politician. Oops, I’m being redundant.”

  “Hated to leave her there, but I didn’t have a choice.”

  “No sweat. Luz said she looked like she was having fun. Misinterpreting their questions, acting confused and hard of hearing. Made them scream and shout, which made Scout bark his brains out. When the TV people asked her to shut him up because he kept ruining their takes, she slooowly turned and started to limp after him. The reporters all screamed, ‘Never mind! Never mind.’ Nice work.”

  They bumped off the rutted dirt road onto solid pavement.

  “Where to, boss?” Danny flashed his trademark grin.

  “MIA.”

  “Gotcha.”

  At the airport, Danny drove into the long-term parking garage and snatched a ticket from the machine.

  “What are you doing?” Venturi demanded. “Don’t park. Just drop me off.”

  “And do what with the car?” Danny looked puzzled.

  Venturi blinked. “You don’t…?”

  “Think I’d miss this? Let you have all the fun?”

  Their eyes locked.

  “You don’t have to come, Danny.”

  “No way I’m not.”

  “Got a passport and ID handy?”

  “Always.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “I’ve got American, Canadian, and Colombian, among others.”

  “What about Luz?”

  “She and the kids have ’em, too. The world’s closing in on us, bro. Never know when the big shit bomb hits the fan and we all have to make a run for it.”

  “No, no. I meant does she know you’re leaving the country, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I’ll give her a call from there.”

  Venturi rolled his eyes. “I’m glad I’m not married to you.”

  “The feeling is mutual. Hate to have to tell you this, but you were never my type.”

  “Thank God for small favors.”

  Danny hoisted his duffel bag from behind the backseat. “It’s always packed,” he said. “What’s our first stop?”

  “France, the closest as the crow flies.”

  “Hoped you’d say that.” He flashed his wicked grin.

  Mike frowned.

  “We going as strangers, amigo?” Danny asked.

  “Yep. We should travel alone.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Danny strode straight through security. Venturi was wanded, groped, and had his bag searched twice. They boarded separately, assigned to different sections of the next flight to Paris. Venturi slept, or tried to, during the flight. Several times he heard Danny’s hearty laughter from somewhere behind him. On a trip to the restroom he saw him seated next to the emergency exit, chatting with the young couple beside him. Danny saw him, too. Neither gave any sign of recognition.

  They disembarked at Orly Airport and met at a taxi stand outside the terminal. Danny gave the driver a Paris address, to “pick up some things for the party,” he said.

  Venturi waited in the taxi while Danny disappeared into the side door of a costume and party supply store. He returned in minutes with a large shopping bag and a wooden box, which he stowed in the trunk. Then they took off for Tours, more than an hour’s drive into wine country.

  There they rented a car. Danny filled out the forms. Venturi drove while Danny called home.

  “Bonjour, sweet face. Yeah. I know I’m late. Won’t be home for a while. Paris. No, not Texas. Yeah, Paris. As in France and that skinny Hilton broad. Duty calls. Be back quick as I can…. Not sure. Kiss the kids for me and tell ’em Daddy loves ’em…. I’m always careful…. Love you, too. Au revoir, baby.”

  He turned to Venturi. “Happy now?”

  “Look for Rue Vendome, number 414,” Venturi said.

  “How did you get her address?” Danny asked.

  “Her nom de guerre is Micheline Lacroix…”

  “Yeah, but she’s on la liste rouge.”

  “And you know that because?”

  He scowled. “Did an operator give you her damn address?”

  “Nope. Read the news from Tours last night on the Internet.”

  “Hell, tell me she didn’t make the news. Did she?” Danny furrowed his brow. “What happened to low profile? If you could find her that way, so could somebody else.”

  “Probably not her fault. Online in a business column. Micheline Lacroix was named as the new manager of a specialty wine and food shop in Tours. But you’re right, which is why this is our first stop. We can make short hops to cover the ’hood north of here later, if we have to. Lyle Gates is o
n the run. Hopefully he can take care of himself for a while.

  “Shoulda heard him, Danny,” Venturi said earnestly. “In spite of all the shit raining down, he made me proud. He’s not the man I first met, ready to lie down and die in a swamp. He handled himself like a champ. Fought for his life. Loves his new job. Excited about the future. How can I regret what we did? He’s a goddamn success story. Which is why this is so damn unfair to him, and to Marian Pomeroy. I hope Audra is savvy enough to have a heads-up after my call. She and Aiden are the farthest away. Hopefully that makes them safer, at least for a while.

  “I’m not sure where the hell father-of-the-year Andrew McCallum is, or if he’s even in Scotland. If we don’t find him fast, we may have to forget him and go to Australia.”

  “I’m up for that.” Danny sounded enthusiastic. “It’s one place I’ve never been. Slow down! Here’s rue Vendome.” Danny stared through the windshield.

  They had little trouble finding the specialty shop called Epicure.

  They parked nearby and Venturi called the telephone number on the sign outside.

  Micheline Lacroix was expected in thirty minutes, he was told.

  Danny took the party supplies from the trunk. They opened the packages behind the tinted windows of the car. In the box were two high-powered .45-caliber, fifteen-shot automatic handguns and boxes of ammunition. In the shopping bag were two military-grade protective vests. Body armor.

  They loaded the weapons.

  “Nice,” Venturi said. “How’d you line this up?”

  “Made a few calls from the airport, before we left the States.”

  Venturi, who still hadn’t shaved, wandered into the shop, browsed the gourmet foods, and bought pastries and coffee to go.

  They drank the coffee in the car.

  Danny, restlessly scanning the street, didn’t touch the food.

  “There she is!” he finally said. “Incoming, at three o’clock. On foot.” He whistled appreciatively. “Oh, man.” He moaned. “Look at her.”

  Micheline Lacroix owned the street, a head turner in a white silk shirt, tight black skirt, and stiletto heels, the epitome of French womanhood; clothes fashionable, hair sleek, exuding a kick-ass attitude of sultry self-confidence.